The Infernal Girl
by SelfDestructIn54321
Summary: Dualed by Elsie Chapman crossover. Don't need to know anything about the series. All human version of all human: present time, no Alts, basically. . . NOTHING from the Dualed world, 'cept the characters. Tris was bullied, and bullied, and bullied throughout her childhood, but when the pops go too far, Tris is homeschooled, damaged, and infernal. Pic: Shai Woodley.
1. Chapter 1

**So. You guys know what I do in my free time! My first dramatic fanfic. Disclaimer: I own neither Divergent, or Dualed (awesome series, guys.)**

Chapter 1

My eyes burn, but I refuse to blink. Here I ly, dead-still in the hopes that my body will stop aching; I suck in another painful breath.

My family didn't understand; when came in, Caleb—my brother—was coming into the kitchen with a stack of pates: the dinner I'd missed. He dropped them when he saw me. Mom and Dad, in the living room, looked over to see what was up; Dad gasped, jumping to her feet, and

Mom jumped up as well, leaping over the loveseat, through the entryway it is pushed against, and into the dining room, dodging the table and slamming the door behind me. She was looking at me up and down, concerned. When she got to my waist, she exploded in "Holy fuck"s.

Caleb ran over to the kitchen, and wet a washcloth, then went over to me, trying to bring it to the dried blood on my face.

"No," I said, flinching away. "Don't." He stopped, and rested against the wall.

"_Who did this?!" _Mom ground out though her teeth; someone screamed outside, and I dove for my sports bag—I'd left it at home because there wasn't any practice today. I grabbed a baseball bat. "_Who. Did. This?!"_

"Beatrice?" Asked Dad. "What happened?"

"I-" Mom dropped to the floor; she picked me up like I was a baby, making for the stairs that lead to mine and Caleb's bedrooms."I didn't-"I stuttered as she set me on the tile of my bathroom. "I wasn't-"

"Beatrice." Mom said. "It's okay. You're safe now." She looks me straight in the eye. "But I have to ask you, honey, did they use protection?" I shook my head, not understanding, "Beatrice, did they use protection?"

I was still shaking my head. "_Beatrice-"_

"No!" I yelled. "No. No, no-"

"Oh, honey," Mom said, smoothing her thumb over my cheek. "It's okay, honey, Bea, it's okay." Sh looked at me again, and noticing the blood on my face, she pressed her lips together, hard. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Next came a torturous blend of shower water and body wash and peroxide and bandages Neosporin and gauze. Then, she made me ly down, and went and got me snacks and water, and offered to watch a movie with me, until I insulted her thouroughly enough that she left.

Then—now—I cry like a baby.

Three Years Later . . . 

I peek around the door; I don't know why. It's glass. A girl sits behind the desk, across from the door; next to the counter, on the right, is a heavy-looking metal door. On the left wall, going to the glass windows that covered the front of the building, sat like three chairs, padded metal numbers like you might find in a school office.

The girl's looking at a computer, and she has one earbud in; she has light brown hair in a low, neat ponytail, and wears a grey-with-black-design sleeveless button-up polka-dot dress shirt, with a bow at the waist, and a lavender fitted-at-the-waist pleated skirt, and black velvet platform heels.

"Is this the . . . Divergent Self-Defense Institute?"

The girl snaps her gaze up, and gestures at me to come in. "Yes—the Dauntless branch—honey, it is. Would you like to enroll?"

"Yeah," I say, uncomfortable.

"Okay, please take this form back to room . . . " she looks at something on her computer. "One-oh-six, okay?" I take the clipboard from her, and grab a pen from the jar on the desk. I go for the door, and she presses a button to unlock it. "Your trainer will be there in a minute."

"Sure, sure," I mumbled, and went down the hallway.

The walls were black, and the rooms had no windows like the Abnegation branch had. I opened the door to 106, after saying my name into a little microphone thing; It was plain white, all the furniture black. There was a plain bench on one wall, away from the door, watching it.

I sit on the bench and try to make sense of the paperwork.

"Are you a transfer?" Asked a checkbox.

"Yes, yes I am." I say aloud.

"From which Faction Branch, and which classification of Institute?"

"Um," I say. _In-Line Self-Defense Institute. Abnegation Branch. _"How would you best describe yourself?" _Mmm. Stubborn. _

Someone's playing with the door; I stand, my hand shaping over the pen so I may use it like a knife. A girl comes in, medium height, with dark brown hair in a high ponytail, like mine, but her's is curly, and mine is wavy, caramel colored. Both are neat.

She wears black boots, lace-up knee-high flat-soles, and dark blue skinny jeans. She takes off her brown biker jacket, hanging it on a hook, and wears a black tank, racrback, under it. A pair of tattoos clothe her wrists, done up in dark gray in color.

"My name's West," She says. "I'll be your trainer. Cause?"

"What do you mean?"

"What's your cause, why are you here? Why do you want to train with us?"

"Oh, um." I say. "School bullies."

"What did they do?"

"Let's just say, I'm homeschooled."

"If you say so." West says, and holds up a wooden staff. "Wanna practice?"

I smile, and catch the pole when she throws it.

"Can you fight in that?"

I look down at myself. I wear a black dress that goes to my thighs; the neckline is straight, from shoulder to shoulder. It has pink ravens patterned all over it, and bunches at the waist. Under it, I wear light blue low-rise skinny jeans with rips in the knees, and gray combat boots.

"Yeah." I say. "Yeah, I can."

West and I are fighting with staffs. "It's light," she said, "Aptitudic."

"Do you have a nickname?" She asks now.

"Hmm?" Sweat's building on my forehead; in Abnegation, we just did shit like yoga and Tai Chi.

"A nickname. They always give you one."

"Oh. Yeah." I say, and make a swing with the pole; she blocks.

"What is it?" She asks; I sigh.

"The Infernal Girl."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I hate Choosing Ceremonies.

I am walking with West—my trainer for three years now, to our places in the bleachers; I'm sitting in the front row, since I'm choosing today, and West will be next to me, since she's my trainer/mentor, and Caleb will be next to me, since he's both related to me, and also choosing today.

My parents aren't here. Dad's at a meeting with some politician or whatever—always is—but he has Cara—his lackey, sorta nice, but secretly hates Abnegation with a passion—taping it in the back, and swears he'll watch it.

Great.

Mom's at home, watching the CC on the Institutes' owned channel. I can see her in my mind, tidying up the kitchen after putting a tray of white chocolate-macadamia nut cookies—mine and Caleb's favorites—and watching CC on the tiny TV on the counter by the microwave.

A touch at my wrist shatters my thoughts gratefully. It's West. Her right hand's on mine, like she's taking my pulse, but I know she's not. I know she knows that I hate that: the Candor who'd interveiwed me after my attack did that, the bastard. Two of her fingers on the circles of the infinity sign-tattoo on my wrist; they're best-friend ones, she has the same on her wrist.

"You okay?" She asks quietly, leaning down to look at me; she's a head taller.

I nod an "I'm fine," and she takes it and looks up at the stage.

Marcus Eaton, the guy who does the ceremonies, rakes a hand through his graying brown hair, and picks a knife out of the bin on the stage. Then, he begins the customary speech that makes me want to barf.

"We all have been abused or bullyed in some way," starts Marcus.

"He'll start with the worst fighters or participaters of Abnegation-'cause he's from there, of course. And then, Erudite, 'cause they hate each-other, and, after that, Amity, and then Dauntless, and then Candor. Worst fighters, then best fighters, alright? So count on being last." West whispers, making me smile.

I grab my bag; it's an awesome black cat-themed number with a fish bone decal (**eerieeyredd on Polyvore) **for the munchies I know I packed. West's fingering the "LIVE FREE" tattoos on her knuckles.

I'm not finding the cheesy snacks I'm after, so I pull the backpack into my lap, and search for it where I can see; at the first scent of the canvas, a slight smile curls my lips.

I had this bag the night I got my second tattoo.

_It was a tiny little place, but safe from the storm outside; I was sitting in a chair, with Caleb next to me in his own, and his girlfriend Susan in an actual chair near me. She was holding his jacket, and the sleeve of her own cream-colored cardigan stuck out of her bag; I'd practically wrestled it off of her before got inside._

_I wasn't wearing a jacket, just a plain light gray "#1 AND NOT EVEN TRYING" sweater, jeans, and red hightops with bedazzled sides, and my bag against the chair. _

_Caleb looked awesome in his clothes—of course, since I picked it out. He was wearing a three-quarter sleeve button up black shirt, wrinkled blue jeans, and plain gray-with-black-laces shoes. His jacket was his favorite, unmatching to the outfit, and not my picture of the outfit. It was a sort of beige number with like three buttons that I hated with a passion._

_Susan wore my clothes—we're basically the came size, thank god—since she'd slept over the night before—cleared with my mom that it was with me, though it was basically just playing games of rummy with Susan and Caleb that took forever because I didn't know how to play, Caleb kept getting distracted by _The Lego Movie_ that was on behind my head, and Susan kept falling asleep. They didn't kiss a lot like normal couples, thank god. But it's annoying either way. _

_Susan was wearing a gray sweater, also, but it was an off-one-shoulder type, with "Hungover" across the chest, and "last night was my bitch" under that, though it obviously wasn't; she was wearing black torn jeans and gray high-tops with skulls on the heels. _

_Her hair—dark brown—was loose, with some from the fron pulled back, braided, and clumped together in the back._

_Caleb's was long—because Susan liked it like that, he said—and messy, because neat hair looked both weird and disgusting. And pedophilic._

_Mine was loose and wavy, the ends dying teal-blue. _

_When the needle pressed to the skin of his forearm, he winced. _

_The guy tattooing me—insanely sexy, with dark brown hair and clowded cobalt rivers of eyes—was starting when some girl—asian, cute, adult, female, with black clothing and small arms—started on Caleb._

"_How is it?" He asked._

_I snorted. "It's much more painful sober, I'll tell you that." I said._

_I'd gotten mine and West's infity signs on our wrists, "never give up" in the opposing wrist with Susan, and—mine in light, his in bold—an infinity sign with "my brother's keeper on the back of my hand, and "my sister's protector" on his. _

_Susan and Caleb got a simple, generic "love" tattoo on their forearms. _

I smile at the memory, and touch "Never give up" on my wrist. That tattoo had gotten me through a whole lotta shit, I'll tell you that.

"Rose Kravitz." (**It never says Christina's name, so I'm using her actress's) **

I look up. A little girl—like, twelve—is walking to the stage; she has brown skin, and is wearing her dark hair in a fishtail braid; a beige-brown dress that makes her look awesome and badass in swishing around her feet, which are clothed by lace-over-canvas tennis shoes. She has a cat-bag on one shoulder, and a jean jacket over her arms; silver rings, a gold necklace, and blue plastic flower earrings. There's a bow in her hair.

She walks up to the stage, and cuts her hand, and dumps the blood in the Dauntless bow; a group gives her a standing ovation a beat after me and West do: I don't know about the others, but me and West always cheer for anyone under sixteen.

"Prior, Bea-" West cuts Marcus off, clearing her throat and through her hands into the air, and he corrects himself. "Prior, _Tris."_ He says.

I stand, and sling my bag over my shoulder; Caleb gives me a high five as I go by. West stands, but doesn't follow me.

Marcus hands me a clean knife; the bin is almost empty. My choice is thoughtless: Dauntless. It was the Faction that helped me through my depression, my hurt; West and Bayer—the guy who runs the Dauntless Institute I went to—and Brin and everyone _understood_ all the shit that was going through my head, they knew how cruel those bullies had been.

My blood spilled, the Dauntless cheered, and Marcus spit on the ground.

I made my way over to the Dauntless crowd. West touched my shoulder.

"You've finally made it, Tris!" She exclaimed.


End file.
